“This must be Thursday. I never could get the hang of Thursdays”

This is something I wrote on Thursday evening. It’s a fair reflection of how I felt at the time. On re-reading it in the cold light of day, the melodramatic touches make me cringe but I haven’t changed a word.

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It’s evening and I’m sitting alone in the flatling, curled up on the sofa with the laptop. The curtains are closed and the heating is on. I can hear the radiators clunking. Snipe is in her bed next to the sofa; Midge is asleep in her basket on the other side of the room, next to the desk. Thanks to the double glazing, I can hear no noises from outside, only the radiators, the hum of the computer, the dogs’ snoring and the tapping of my fingers on the keys as I type.

Next to me on the coffee table is a box of tissues, a DVD case, two coasters, a place mat and an empty mug, still warm from the coffee I recently finished.

The sofa is draped with a white throw, badly arranged so that it’s already slipping down under my weight, exposing the vile pink sofa it’s meant to be hiding. I’m leaning back on four equally hideous cushions, two red and floral, two sea green. None of them are particularly thick, hence the need for four.

And me? I’m still wearing yesterday’s clothes, from my underwear to my t-shirt and jumper. Dark green and falling apart, if you’re interested.

My hair is uncombed, my teeth un-brushed, my face red and swollen from hours of crying. I’m exhausted, physically and emotionally, and want nothing more than to curl up in bed, take a sleeping pill and let the night sweep past me as I slumber. But it’s too early for that. I haven’t fed the dogs and they will need to go out later in the evening.

Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.

I’m alone and although the phone is no more than two paces away, I can’t bear the thought of picking it up, dialling someone’s number, desperately hoping they’re in, praying that they’re not so that I don’t have to run the gauntlet of expressing how I feel. To do will invite more heart-wrenching as I acknowledge how much pain I am in, how much it hurts, how helpless I feel in the shadows.

I am alone.

My world is filled with people who love me, who I love in return.

But some paths are meant to be walked alone.

No-one else can make me feel better.

Doctors can prescribe pills and refer patients for therapy. They can cure disease and perform miracles in the face of death. But they can’t heal emotional wounds, can’t exorcise memories and ghosts from the past.

Friends can support you, listen and offer advice. But no matter how much they love you, supporting and listening are as much as they can do. They can share your burden, but they cannot take it from you.

And when you stand alone in the darkness, they can shine a light to guide you, but they cannot carry you. At the end of the day, no matter how much it hurts, you are the one who must stand up and take faltering steps, even when your eyes are blind, when your heart is breaking, when you are so numb you can’t feel their hands as they desperately try to hold you up.

This afternoon, I lay on the floor and cried until my throat was raw, my breath ragged, my lungs screaming for air, my eyes burning, my cheeks stinging from the salt, the carpet soaked with my tears.

This afternoon, I curled up on this sofa and cried until my throat was raw, my breath ragged, my lungs screaming for air, my eyes burning, my cheeks stinging from the salt, the cushions soaked with my tears.

I am alone. I am scared.

I have been sitting here, watching a DVD, letting my mind be distracted by the script, by the acting, by the black humour. When my attention wanders, I get up and make yet another coffee, wrapping my hands around the mug, letting its heat comfort me.

The dogs are worried. Midge hides in her bed. Snipe tries to climb into my lap whenever I cry, licking my face and pushing her head against mine. If she gets my attention, she plays the fool, trying to lighten my mood. I cry into her coat, clinging onto her fur, listening to her heart beat. She loves me unconditionally, would do anything for me, but as much as she loves me, there is nothing she can do.

There is nothing that anyone can do.

I must walk this path alone.

There a way for me to throw away this burden, but to do so would be to throw it all away. Right now, I may not want to live, but neither do I want to die.

And so, with no other options, I must stumble blindly forward into the dark. Alone. I know my friends are waiting, that they are shining a light into the shadows to guide me home, but for now, my only companions are my pain, my nightmares, the memories that haunt me.

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6 responses to this post.

Reading that post BMS, I feel I am prying into your private nightmare with no way of helping. But if writing helps then write you must. I sincerely hope that now, three days on, this blackest of black moods has passed. I don’t know if I can count myself as a “friend” but I genuinely want to see you recover from this hell where no-one deserves to be sent to. I am sure you do have the strength to overcome this so I’ll do the only thing I can just now and send some virtual cake to help you get through next Thursday – and the next and the next ……..

I wish I could do something, anything, but all I can do is read your posts and think of you. All of us in blogosphere are thinking of you and sending you vibes of love and hope. So keep on stumbling gal and you’ll get somewhere!!!

It’s heartbreaking to see you so sad, with no way that I can make it better. I can only keep reminding you that you’re constantly in my thoughts. Even though I’m not in touch every day, you can rely on the fact that every day I think about you many times, hoping that you’re having a good day. I’m always praying that the days are getting better, and that the pain is receding.

Keep writing honey. I get more worried when you don’t write. Since not working and being home most of the time, I’ve really realised how valuable my connection to other people via the internet is, so while you don’t want to go out of the door, keep in touch with the outside world here. Don’t worry about sounding over-dramatic – the pain is real when the words come out, so leave them be.

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